Dying Hero, Rising Demon
by Voloran
Summary: I am the hero. I saved Sanctuary from the Lord of Terror. I slew the Demon who resisted the might of the Horadrim Legions, singlehandedly. Why is it then that I suffer? One Chapter Story on the mind of the dying hero and rising demon.


Pain! It is pain that I feel. My body aches, and not even the peace I deserve has been granted to me. I feel my forehead and I feel it burn. I dare not walk for my feet feel dead. The sword by my side pulls me down and I struggle with frail hands to pull myself. My throat is dry and no quantity of water helps me. Though I am wrapped in folds of cloth, the accursed cold still embraces me. I ride along a green road, fair trees and mountains along my path, but my eyes cannot see them. I cannot see the nightingale singing on that tree, I cannot hear it sing, I cannot smell the sweet smell of the jasmines that linger along this forgotten road.

What I see is fire and blood. Corpses along a broken road. Eyes wide open in terror. Bodies mutilated and torn apart by ungodly fingers. Wicked eyes prying from the darkness that pervades even under the helpless sun. I see proud men die honourably under the curved daggers of demons. I see fair maidens ravaged by the fiendish hands of hellspawn. I see mighty warriors die exhausted under the hands of the foul creatures of the Lord of Terror. I see the Dark Lord himself, grinning evilly from a seat of human bones smeared with blood. I see the friends I lead die by his profane fires. I see myself covered completely by the blood of humans and demons, advancing to the Evil. To slay him. And so I do as well. I remember seeing myself dance with joy and collapse, tired physically and mentally after my personal war against the darkness of Tristram. But this memory of joy lasts only a fleeting moment. And the demons in my mind come back. Cain claimed they were nightmares caused by my ordeal in the monastery. I feel otherwise. An unclean presence laughs within me.

What I hear is the dying scream of my friend, burning by Diablo's fire. I hear the groans of hundreds of heroes dying slowly in the monastery. The weeping cries of the long dead Horadrim, cursed to be demonic slaves to the devil they sacrificed their lives to kill. I still hear the dying wish of the brave soul who beseeched me to avenge his dead family for him. I hear the wicked cackle of the traitor Lazarus. I hear the unearthly moan of Diablo as I gave him his deathblow. I remember hearing the sweet voice of fair Filumira, her beautiful songs. The voice of my little Cemhati. They are dead now. But even the remembrance of my family cannot remain long in my nightmarish mind.

What I smell is blood. I smell death. I smell it on myself, on the walls, on my sword and armor. I smell the foul demons and dark Diablo himself. It chokes me; I empty my stomach every time I eat due to the smell of hell itself, which refuses to leave. It changes, changes every time I get used to it. And the ghastly circle continues. I eat little now, fearing that I may get sick. And thus I am weak.

But even that cannot explain why I can barely control my body. I was honoured once. I was envied for my strength and endurance. Children looked at me in awe, wanting to be like me when they grow up. Now, I can barely sit straight on my horse. I am like a corpse myself, blind, deaf, mute. Unable to respond to anything around me. I have no idea where I am heading. Tristram is far behind now. I travel unconsciously, involuntarily.

Sometimes I wonder why I am so suffering. Why I am living in this….in this foul nightmare. Everyone looks at me as if I am the Lord of Terror himself, or look at me pitifully, pitifully at my drawn face, pale skin, at my white hair, slowly falling away, at my reddened eyes. Why I am treated as an outcast, a dredge of society, as an evil demon, as murdering fiend. Why I am ignored and feared. I am the saviour am I not? Was it not I who killed a Prime Evil…A Prime Evil! One of the Three devils who threatened the world. Even the Horadrim needed massive armies to contain them. And I alone, with only a handful of friends stormed hell and slew the Dark Lord. I am the hero. I should be celebrated. I should be famed in song and legend. I should be honoured. And is that happening? No, women gather their children in their bosom seeing me approach, as if I am there to carve them. Men draw swords and sneer at me, swearing at me and threatening me to keep away from their lands. An outcast, a filthy rascal. Do I deserve all that? NO! Even the heavens have abandoned me. I have ended their greatest enemy and I still suffer in pain. Why did I undertake this ghoulish quest? This fiendish ordeal. If it was to avenge my own family, was it not for Sanctuary itself. And yet I am living like this. Alone, forgotten, feared and jeered at.

I wonder if I am going mad. I wonder what has happened to me. I wonder why this evil exists in me even after the end. I hear his voice sometimes. In my nightmares, I see him and he speaks to me. He honours me, he praises me. I, a mortal killed him and he acknowledges me. It is a trap I know. For I fear he never died now. That he is within me, in some unholy manner I know naught of. He seduces me with dreams of power, with dreams of Filumira and Cemhati alive and with me. Dreams of me free from this burden of memory, hale and hearty. When I refuse in my dreams, he attacks me. And though it is only a dream, I wake up sometimes, screaming and feel the pain alive, red and boiling. Though my wounds are in my dreams, the scars are on my body. I weep sometimes, tired and exhausted, my feet smeared with my blood. They feel broken, but he keeps me going, with my horse dead, I have to walk. I deplore him to let me rest, to sit down and sleep, but he does not allow me. I walk, to the east. To the east where I do not know what he wants. And with every dawn, I feel him crawl up and eat away at my soul. I am losing my battles. I fight as I can, fearing the chaos he would unleash if he took over me totally. I fear him taking over me. I want to live, to breathe the fresh air and smile. But I cannot last long. Dread is around me. I fear to sleep, afraid of his temptations. I want to give up sometimes, but I dare not. I do not trust him. His word cannot be believed. The moment I give up, I will die. Like Albrecht, he shall take over my body. I shall become him. I still fight for the fools who insult me. But I must fight on. As I walk to the east….to the east….


End file.
